Thunder on The Sods - Part One

As I go through papers, I came across a wonderful paper written by my eldest daughter. I have cherished this story. There are some memories in life that touch your heart and are embedded there until death. Many of my special memories deal with Dolly Sods. My I share Rachael's story with you.

Thunder on the Sods

Rachael Meads
August 1, 1993

“There is wildcats on this mountain.” Mr. Rice speaks softly, but his seventy-year old jaw is set firm, and I know he aims to convert the disbelievers. He has seen the fresh carcass of a deer down by Red Creek. Earlier that week, he heard the wild scream that only a big cat makes. “Twere enough to make a man’s hair stand ascaret! Ain’t no dogs, nor bears, nor any other creature in these parts that can make such an unholy a sound as that,” he testifies.

The two fellows from the Park Service just grin sidelong at one another and shake their heads, “Now, Mr. Rice, you know that can't be. Mountain lions haven’t been documented here for years.”

“Well. I think, then they’ve come home.”

Every summer that I can remember I have spent time here on Dolly Sods, a mountain in the Monongahela National Forest. My family stays in a small cabin community called Laneville at the foot of the mountain. There are never more than fifty people tucked into this valley at any time of the year, with the exception of the first week of hunting season when the cabins are overrun with testosterone, beer, and tall tales.

Mr. Rice has lived here for years now. He is an authority on everything that happens on the mountain. Weathering out terrible winters, floods, and the hardship of being one of the only year-round residents, Mr. Rice senses the rhythms of this land. His life is intertwined with its.

As you drive the steep gravel road up to the top of the mountain, the hardwood forest gradually shifts into a more rugged terrain. Oaks and maple disappear, and pines take over. Eventually, the pines fade as well. The peak of the mountain is covered with triangular flag spruce with their limbs blasted away by the wind on the west side. They point away from the cold that descends upon their mountain in winter, urging travelers to warmer climates. To many people this place might seem desolate or forsaken with its enormous exposed boulders and shrubby summer growth. Yet, to me, this land is sacred, beautiful because it has endured so much. There is hope in its history, and peace in its wildness.

A hundred and fifty years ago, when this whole mountain was owned by the Dahle family, a hardwood forest covered most of the land. The rights to log were parceled out here and there over the years, and eventually the virgin wood was hauled away to become houses, furniture, boats, and coffins. Some people say it was the carelessness of the loggers that started the fire. No one seems to know for sure who was responsible, but a blaze began on the mountain and burned for nearly thirty years. Firefighters couldn’t control it. It raged above the ground until the trees and soil had all burnt away to leave the bedrock standing exposed. Then, it would disappear underground to burn in the peat moss until the wind would pick up again and resurrect it roaming.

When the fire finally ceased, grasses and shrubs began to return, then flowers, blueberries, and spruce. Peat bogs with their sticky carnivorous sundews, dense mosses, and cranberries reclaimed the blackened surface. Yet, there was little time left for recovery before the next disaster, the entrance of the federal government.

The Final Part of Thunder on the Sods will be posted tomorrow.